


liquid

by Chainsawlicker



Category: Boondock Saints (Movies)
Genre: Codependency, Drug Use, M/M, Pre-Canon, Sibling Incest, Swimming, Twincest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-31
Updated: 2020-12-31
Packaged: 2021-03-11 00:53:32
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,661
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28436439
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chainsawlicker/pseuds/Chainsawlicker
Summary: He turns his back, toes off his shoes and shucks his jeans. He’s sweaty and there’s a weird crawling sensation along the back of his neck. Connor’s waiting for him, toes on the edge. He steps up and looks at the water. It’s beautiful, clear and blue except where their shadows lie. His brother leans in, forging their shadows into one.They jump.
Relationships: Connor MacManus/Murphy MacManus
Comments: 4
Kudos: 15





	liquid

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to DrSchaf for all the invaluable comments and suggestions as always.

The noonday sun blazes through the uncovered windows. He and his brother, wearing only their boxers because it’s hot as fuck, sprawl on the couch with a dangerously full ashtray. He turns towards Connor with his whole body, swinging his legs up, nearly sending ashes everywhere. He pushes against Connor’s thigh with his foot and leaves it there, feeling the warmth under his sole, waiting for the onslaught he knows is coming.

Connor raises a gun and aims right for his face. Sunlight from the window glints off the yellow plastic. He fires water into Murphy’s open mouth and over his face and chest. 

Murphy retaliates with a bombardment of water, until it’s dripping from Connor’s chin onto his boxers, soaking through in droplets. Light blue becomes dark blue. 

“It’s strange not being hungover on a Saturday,” Murphy says. “I kinda like it. Would be right fucking unbearable in this heat.”

“Aye,” Connor answers, face shiny with water. “We might have died if it’d been this fucking hot yesterday.”

Yesterday they’d suffered the worst hangover of their entire lives. The night before that, their twenty-second birthday celebration, had found them so drunk, Connor later said they were lucky they hadn’t poisoned themselves. Murphy only remembers pieces of it. Most vividly, sitting on Connor’s lap, for some reason, surely, and later vomiting in the shower, Connor’s soothing voice and hands making it less awful.

“We should buy a new fan,” he says, gesturing at their useless and broken one with his pistol, the green plastic leaking water onto the floor. The fan, overturned and sad-looking, sports quite a bit of duct tape, a broken blade and a right good dent in the frame where Connor had kicked the shit out of it earlier, ending its place in their lives forever. 

“Aye. Brilliant. We could-”

The phone rings. Connor leans over to get it off the floor and Murphy shoots him in the ribs while they’re exposed. The couch cushions are overly damp now, bordering on soggy.

He listens to Connor’s half of the conversation while water drips from his hair and over his shoulder in tickling trails.

“I don’t think so, Roc… We still don’t want to go drink-- What? No, say that again… What is it? I don’t know, but yeah bring it with ye.”

He kicks his heel into Connor’s thigh to get his attention. “Make him bring lunch. Subs, aye?”

Connor grins at him, raises his gun and shoots him right in the heart. “And Roc, go to Joey’s on Fourth and bring subs, alright?”

*

Murphy leans back, full and momentarily cool from the ice-cold cokes, and takes the lit cigarette Connor passes him. His knee rests against his brother’s under the table. He smiles contentedly and blows a smoke ring towards the ceiling. 

Rocco clears his throat and waits until they’re both looking at him, then he nods and dramatically produces something from his pocket and places it on the table with a flourish. It’s a small glass vial with a blue screw-off lid, a quarter-full of clear liquid. Rocco grins at them, leans forward and announces in a stage-whisper, “LSD.”

After some discussion, they use Cheez Its. Connor’s not willing to allow Rocco to drop it directly on their tongues, so Murphy watches Connor watch Rocco carefully squeeze out one drop on each cracker. They crunch them up and swallow. 

“Oh, uh.” Rocco grimaces. “It takes about 45 minutes to work.”

“How long’s it last?” he asks.

“About 8 hours,” Rocco replies. 

Connor sighs, shoots Rocco and then himself in the temple with his pistol. 

It’s sweaty hot.

“I know what we can do!” Rocco declares, hopping up and down in his chair, causing it to creak alarmingly. “Let’s go find a pool, yeah?” 

Murphy glances at Connor briefly before he nods at Rocco. “Fuckin’ grand idea there, Roc.”

*

The sunscreen is way, way in the back of the cabinet underneath the sink behind the toilet paper, next to the Draino. He snags the bottle and shakes it. Half full. He pulls himself up by the sink and goes to see if Connor was successful in locating their swim trunks. 

“Why don’t you guys just push your beds together?” 

Murphy freezes in the hallway outside their bedroom. He stands still as a statue, heart pounding in his throat. 

“What?” Connor’s voice sounds muffled as if he’s deep in the closet. 

“I said: why don’t you guys just push your beds together so you can have more room,” Rocco says for a second time, jovial enough.

“Roc.” Connor sounds clearer now. “It’s just when we’re drunk and ye know why.”

He always slept in Connor’s bed when they had been drinking. Always, since forever. 

Rocco had caught them once. Walked in on them asleep and coiled together one morning because he’d taken their keys by mistake. Connor had explained it easily enough and Rocco hadn’t seemed fazed at all. 

When they were barely teenagers, a distant cousin died in his sleep, passed out drunk and choked to death by his own vomit. Connor told Murphy the night of the funeral that when they started drinking - for real drinking, not the occasional nips they were currently allowed - they’d sleep together on their sides because he’d never let Murphy die in a stupid, tragic blunder like that. 

And that very first time, not quite drunk, but certainly not sober, Connor had held open the covers and said, “C’mere.” He’d slid in - tipped in really - and when his brother curled around him, he closed his eyes and slept like an angel.

Forever after that, even if he just had one beer, Connor would say, “Murph, ye’ve been drinking, better sleep here.” On the nights they couldn’t afford beer, Connor would often still hold open the covers, so Murphy would climb in, strangely bashful. He’d lay awake a bit on those nights, memorizing the feel of Connors skin against his own, the weight of his brother's arm slung heavy over his ribs, hand curled in a loose fist just under his throat. 

They don’t talk about it. 

“My point is, Connor...” Rocco trails off, sounding vaguely superior.

He peeks into the room. Connor’s in the closet doorway, black and blue pairs of swim trunks dangling from his fingers, his face in a frown. Rocco’s standing at the foot of Murphy’s bed, which has a pile of possibly clean clothes on it, the phone book, a couple of towels that probably need washing, and one of his boots. He can’t remember the last time he slept there. 

Rocco kicks the bed. “It’s dusty, for fuck’s sake.” 

He can feel Connor’s irritation and charges into the room, holding the sunscreen stupidly high and shaking the bottle. “Found it!” 

It breaks the tension; Connor stops frowning and once they find their sneakers - one of Murphy’s actually _in_ the couch - they leave on foot. 

*

At the convenience store on the corner, they buy a couple gallons of water and several packs of cigarettes. They start walking north. The closer they get to the interstate the more hotels there are. They pass by anything ritzy or with a name they know - on the lookout for a cheap, local dive. They spy something called America’s Best Value Inn that looks like shite. There are less than ten cars in the parking lot. The pool is unoccupied and not within eyesight of the front office. They walk through the gate confidently, hoping they look like guests who are just traveling through, on their way to some place better. 

Rocco, who had worn only his cut-off jeans and flip flops, jumps right in, making as big a splash as possible. He surfaces, grins at them, and disappears back under water.

Murphy pulls his old grey t-shirt off and drops it on a lounge chair, glancing over to watch Connor slide his jeans off, black trunks underneath, skin shining in the sun. His skin smells like sunshine too. He knows. Because of all the nights he spent falling asleep with the smell, surrounded by it, enveloped with it.

Connor blinks over at him, head cocked.

He turns his back, toes off his shoes and shucks his jeans. He’s sweaty and there’s a weird crawling sensation along the back of his neck. Connor’s waiting for him, toes on the edge. He steps up and looks at the water. It’s beautiful, clear and blue except where their shadows lie. His brother leans in, forging their shadows into one. 

They jump.

*

The water’s a cloak of cool, a boreal blanket. He sinks to the bottom, then propels himself upward, breaking the surface, opening his eyes. Everything is shiny bright and fucking _there_ in a way it isn’t always. He tilts his head back into the water, floats. The sky’s a surreal blue.

His brother swims into him on purpose, sending him under unexpectedly, and Murphy comes up sputtering. Connor laughs and grins at him, his usual spiky hair plastered to his forehead, saying, “Get out. We forgot to put on the sunscreen and yer gonna fucking burn.”

He ducks under and comes up face first so his hair slicks back, dog paddles over to the side and hauls himself out, dripping. 

Connor’s digging the sunscreen and towels out of the backpack and motions him over. The concrete beneath his feet is burning hot. Connor begins toweling him off like a child, and he just closes his eyes and lets him even though Rocco is right there in the pool, because when his brother’s touching him, he’s too busy trying to collect his thoughts to worry about anything else.

“Murph?” 

He opens his eyes and sucks in a breath because Connor’s pupils are huge.

“Ye alright, brother?” Connor raises his eyebrow.

“Yer eyes are more black than blue,” Murphy says, leaning so close when Connor laughs, his breath washes over him. His brother smells like cigarettes and the sun. He smiles unnaturally wide.

Rocco climbs out and shakes dog-like all over them, grinning like he won the lottery. “You guys feel it?” 

“What’s with the eye thing?” Connor asks, staring into Murphy’s eyes.

“Yeah, yeah. It’s normal. This drug makes your pupils really big, so it enhances everything and makes it weird. Look!” Rocco waves his hand in front of them. But it's twenty hands waving, and then just one but with a trail of ghostly hands where the twenty had been.

“What?” Murphy asks, blinking.

“Trails. It’s cool.” Rocco nods, wet hair hanging limply. “Don’t get freaked out.” And then he’s gone with one big splash into the pool. 

Connor shakes the sunscreen. “Ye ready?” he asks, really meaning, “Ye alright?”

He nods and turns around so Connor can put lotion on his back. His brother smoothes it over his shoulder blades, palms flowing over his skin like ripples.

“Turn round.”

He turns, reaching for the bottle, but Connor ignores his hand and goes about putting lotion all over his front. He closes his eyes, sensitive in a way he’s never been. He can feel every nuance of Connor’s hand, every ridge of his fingerprints as his brother rubs sunscreen slowly into his skin. His stomach muscles jump involuntarily when fingertips brush _just_ under, _barely_ under the top of his trunks. He holds his breath when Connor kneels and does his legs, and his fingers find their own way into his brother’s hair where they wind and twist through the wet strands while his brother smooths sunscreen in circles on his thighs. 

Rocco splashes them, yelling about getting in the fucking pool instead of taking all day putting on lotion. Connor stands, throwing the bottle towards their backpack and cannonballs into the pool. 

*

He floats. Cool on bottom, hot on top. Sun so bright it burns, burns against his closed eyelids. Splash from somewhere, a Rocco splash, not a Connor splash. 

*

“Holy fucking shit. This is the greatest!”

Rocco is too loud and somehow that causes him to get the giggles. Even though his face is starting to hurt from fucking smiling, he can’t not smile everything is too good but also thirsty, really really thirsty. 

He hauls himself out of the pool and pops the lid on the water jug. It’s not cold anymore, but not warm either. Water floods his mouth, gums and tongue absorbing it like parched earth. He feels it all the way down his esophagus and into his belly, cooling. And then Connor with wet hair and an enormous grin.

“Ye can feel it, aye? The water? Ye feel it all the way down, yeah? Is the same for ye?” 

“Aye, the same.” And he sounds normal, regular. How can his voice sound so absolutely normal when the trees are greener than green and the whish from the interstate sounds like music and his voice is normal. He laughs. And Connor laughs with him. 

Watching Connor drink from the jug, throat muscles moving and water escaping his mouth as he chugs, running in a ribbon from the corner of his mouth to his jaw. And if he licked it off, he’d taste Connor, his tongue scraping over his slight stubble, but he can’t because Connor won’t take that last step, seems easy like he could do it, but that is Connor’s job.

*

Isn’t it?

*

Under the water with eyes open, burning, world bluish and wavy, down all the way, bubbles effervescing from his nose with the need to breathe, crawling along the bottom like a crab, hand stark white against the painted blue bottom. And up like an otter, water rushing past, breaking the surface and all sounds return. Connor’s laughing and his face still hurts from smiling.

*

“Do you think you are a good person? Like is that something people even think about?” Rocco’s philosophizing, sitting half in and half out of the water on the pool steps, smoking. Murphy sits near him, deeper in the water, watching ants and trying to keep his cigarette dry. 

He shrugs, blows a smoke ring and says, “I know I’m a good person. I don’t think I think about it though.”

“How do you know though? Like I think you are a good person, one of the fucking best people I know. I love you guys, you know I love you, right? Fucking better. But like how do you KNOW?” 

“I have Connor.” He inhales. Smoke sweet and sharp, twirling whirls in his mouth, in his lungs, so satisfying. 

“That doesn’t make any fucking sense, dude. First of all, everything isn’t about Connor. Jesus, you guys-”

“Lord’s name,” Murphy says to pick on Roc and out of habit.

“Fuckin’ fuck you, MacManus. How does,” Rocco air quotes, "‘having Connor’ make sense? What the fuck does that even mean? You guys are so weird.” 

He frowns at Rocco’s stupidity. “Well, I don’t think a bad person would get to have Connor as their brother.” 

Rocco laughs and punches him lightly on the shoulder. “I don’t understand you assholes sometimes, but I fucking love the both of you.” He splashes off into the pool.

*

What if it isn’t Connor’s job? What if Connor’s been waiting on him while he’s been waiting on Connor — butterfly. A pretty one with blue and yellow. It lands on the side of the pool, so close he can see the delicate structure of each wing as they open and close. Blue the same color as Connor’s eyes who might be waiting for him all this time…

He swims away from the thought, glancing back as if it might follow him. 

*

He floats, eyes open staring up into the endless blue of the sky. Higher and higher. If he stares hard enough maybe he could see heaven. It’s blue and gold. In heaven. He’s positive of that. Heaven most assuredly looks like Connor. He doesn’t understand what God wants of them. Connor doesn’t either. But they both feel He wants _something_ from them. They’ve talked about it often. What they haven’t ever talked about is how much Connor touches him and how much he needs that. Could that be part of God’s plan for them? Does it even matter — if Connor is heaven, then doesn’t he already have the reward and is just wasting time being a coward. Scared of potential consequences.

*

There’s this ant crawling on the side of the pool, don’t get wet and die little ant. And then there is a trail of ants, the whole club, no, group, no, what’s the word and suddenly they hustle back into one ant and the word that never really formed blows away like smoke.

*

Connor comes dripping up and takes his cigarette even though his hands are all wet and there is a pack right there near the ant. 

“Ye keep stealing my smokes when yer hands are all wet and there’s a pack right there. By the ant,” he says good-naturedly and smiling stupidly because he just can’t stop. Connor settles in close on the steps, one step up, legs stretched so they lean against his own legs. It feels like it burns where their skin touches, in the good way and not the bad way, like he can feel each tiny hair on Connor’s leg and every time they touch his skin it shoots electricity right into his heart.

His brother gets more cigarettes, lights two at once and shoves one at Murphy, grazing his finger over the bottom lip. “Yer fuckin’ mouth,” he mutters, unclear and deep in his throat.

Everything around them slows down.

And there’s a moment, an interlude, a brief intermission in time as he squints against the smoke, watching his brother watching him back. A breeze rushes through the stillness like the breath of God and he thinks he can hear Connor’s heartbeat. And then it’s gone and it’s just Boston and the heat and his brother grinning at him, super huge, dazzling like the sun. 

“Ye are blue and gold,” Murphy says and Connor laughs and he laughs and it’s hot and everything is grand. 

Connor shifts, sinking down two steps deeper in the water and leans against his leg. Murphy’s fingers find his hair and begin spiking it up, pulling. They watch Rocco do a handstand in the shallow end.

“Ye remember much from our birthday?” Connor asks, soft and low.

“Not really. The throwing up. And singing - there was singing, I think. And cake? Fucking awful cake.”

“Do ye remember sitting on my lap at the pub?” Connor looks up at him, twisting around to see his face, with his strange blue-black eyes and that wide smile.

“Kinda. Some.” He submerges his hands, scoops up a handful of water and lets it dribble out between his fingers, sunlight dancing through the drops. That’s what his soul looks like, his brother’s soul, his soul is luminous, like sunshine through water. “I dunno why I was doing that. Sorry.”

He’d lost his balance and Connor had reached out and he kinda half-fell, half-sat and why didn’t he sit on Connor’s lap all of the time, sit there all the time. His brother breathing against the back of his neck, hooking a thumb into his belt loop, and “oops, oh fuck” when he burned the back of his arm. Connor’s cigarette burned it, is what happened, on accident, not on purpose - still a red mark he looked at this morning - “sorry, sorry, ye okay?” and Connor’s dipping his head and closing his mouth over the mark, right there in Doc’s pub, on their birthday, in front of everyone. His brother’s tongue sliding over the spot while he shivers and bites his lip, sitting on his brother for some reason, on their birthday when they’re the center of attention, right there in the pub with Connor’s mouth on his arm and he keeps sitting on him because Connor isn’t saying get up and it’s their birthday when they were both born and he feels like a king.

“It was the best part,” Connor says and his wide smile grows even larger.

He laughs and splashes Connor and dives away and what does that mean, what does that even mean. 

*

He swims underwater like Aquaman and surfaces near the steps where Connor and Rocco are smoking all the cigarettes.

“So yeah, man, you seen Jimmy? Seen his great big shiner?” Rocco looks slightly crazy with big black eyes and his hair wet and plastered to his head instead of moving around him like smoke. 

He takes Connor’s cigarette and shakes his head. 

“Yeah, man, yeah. He’s got this huge shiner. Was walking home and heard this chick screaming in an alley. He looks and some guy’s beating this girl with his fists. So Jimmy runs in and pulls him off and the guy socks the shit out of him and the girl runs for her life and the guy runs the other way. Jimmy’s on his knees, holding his eye and he looks up and there are four people standing at the entrance to the alley, just staring. No one ran after the girl, no one ran to call the cops, no one helped, no one even asked Jimmy if he was okay. That is fucked up. The world is going to shit, guys. And you know…” Rocco trails off, suddenly fascinated by a dragonfly buzzing by. 

Connor shakes his head. “There is a great shortage of decent men in the world.” He frowns and lights another cigarette. “Standing around doing nothing. Someone should take it upon themselves to do something.” 

Murphy looks at Connor and his brother looks back and his chest tightens with something significant and then Connor exhales and the smoke looks like a halo in the sun and he forgets everything else that exists.

*

The water in the jug is kind of warm now, but Murphy chugs it anyway. Cement hot, burning against the soles of his feet, water spilling over and dripping from his chin, but everything is wet because everything is water and being an otter would be kinda cool. He leaps back in before his heels blister.

*

He can feel Connor watching him. He turns to find him by the side of the pool, in the deep end, holding onto the side with one hand. He swims over and asks “What?” with the grin that won’t stop. Connor is all teeth and weird eyes and crazy hair and fucking gorgeous. He grips the edge of the pool and says “What?” again, so he doesn’t say other things. 

Connor snatches his free hand underwater and laces their fingers together. “How many secrets do ye think we have? The ones just between us?”

“In all of our lives?”

Connor nods and blinks pool water out of his eyes.

He shrugs. “Dunno. Maybe hundreds by now?”

“Aye. That’s what I was thinking.” Connor licks his lips and smiles more. “We’re good at it, yeah?”

“We are.” He waits for more, but Connor just lets go of his hand and swims away. 

*

A colony. That’s what the ant thing is called. A group of ants. Colony.

*

Somewhere behind him, Rocco says to no one, “It’s still fucking hot. I wish it would snow.” Murphy swivels, eyes searching for his brother at the mention of snow. 

Connor swims over, smiling, holding onto the side of the pool. He drifts closer. Closer. Until his mouth is only a hair’s breadth away from Murphy’s.

He wants to close the gap but his brother has already pulled back, treading water and smiling at him. He holds Connor's shoulder for balance, losing himself in the memory of that snowy New Year’s Eve...

They’d been at a party, but left early, itching to move forward because this was the year they were leaving for America. The night sky’s dark with heavy clouds and their breath creates frosty smoke. They cut through the woods, Connor’s gloved hand taking his because sometimes, often, always when they are alone they hold hands, like when they were kids. But not like when they were kids too. It starts to snow and they stand and look up into it, into the heavens, holding hands. Something Substantial looms on the horizon and they understand they are part of some larger plan than even Connor could dream up. Bells begin to ring. The New Year. Each toll sounds like a promise. Connor’s cold lips touch his, gentle and nice, a firm press. He inhales the smell of the forest and the fresh snow and his brother and engraves the moment in his mind.

Connor’s touching his mouth. In the pool. Right now. In the present. Connor’s touching him with wet fingers, sliding two along his bottom lip. 

Connor stares at his fingers outlining Murphy’s lips until he stops them right in the middle, leaves just his index finger there, pushing in.

Murphy purses his lips against Connor’s finger.

Connor smiles slowly - not the full-on crazy grin they’ve been sporting all day, but a slow, easy smile. He says “shhhh” as they are effectively making the hush gesture. He moves his hand to grip the back of Murphy’s neck and whispers, “We could have a secret, ye and I. Another secret just between us.” And then he sinks below the surface and swims away underwater.

*

They cling to the side of the pool, three wet heads in a row, watching the parking lot get fuller. A couple of folks are headed their way with towels.

“What the fuck time is it?” Rocco asks even though none of them wear a watch. 

He looks at Connor and his brother nods with only a slight tilt to his head. Murphy climbs out. It’s not as warm and clouds darken the sky to the east.

“Roc, we’re gonna take off, aye?” Connor ducks his head one last time and uses the steps to get out. “Was a cool day, man.”

“Aw, fuck you guys. You always take off on me. Whatever.” Rocco swims away.

*

His jeans are wet from the swim trunks underneath and cling irritatingly to his thighs as he walks next to Connor down the street. His sneakers squish a little. “Think Roc is really mad?”

“Nah, ye know how he is.” Connor looks over and smiles. “My fucking face hurts from smiling so much today.”

“Fucking crazy, weird day. Good, though. I’m tired, but I feel good.”

Connor’s hand catches hold of his pinky and squeezes it while they’re walking. “Ye hungry?

“Maybe. Don’t think I could eat though.” 

They walk for a while in silence and Murphy starts thinking about holding hands, even though they’re walking down a busy street and it’s still a couple of hours before dark.

“We could go through the park,” Connor says. “It’s longer but...it’s gotten a bit cooler, aye?” 

They go. It’s shady and quieter than the street. There’s a nice fountain, bubbling. 

He grins. “Got pennies?”

Connor digs in his pockets and comes up with one. “That’s alI got.” He hands it over.

“I’ll make a wish for both of us then,” Murphy says. 

The fountain is clear with a blue bottom, like the pool. It’s littered with shiny copper pennies, an occasional dime or quarter. He rubs the penny between his thumb and forefinger before he tosses it. The wish is fuzzy and crystal-clear, vague and articulate. He’s so unable to form it into a proper sentence that he just tries to feel it with his heart.

“What’d ye wish for? Think it’ll come true?” Connor asks.

Murphy just shrugs and tries to push his brother into the fountain.

*

It's definitely past dinner time. The sun is sinking lower and lower and it’s cooler than it’s been all day. They’ve been sitting under a shady tree for a while, long enough for him to recline against the tree trunk, long enough to smoke half a pack, long enough for Connor to stretch out in the grass and use his thigh as a pillow.

“We should-”

“Shhhhh.” Connor cuts him off, sits up and studies his face for some time.

“Whadda ye want?” he asks, becoming self-conscious under the intense gaze.

“I wanna know what ye think. About what I said earlier.”

Murphy pushes his hair off his forehead. “I dunno, I mean, why are ye _asking_ me?”

“Don’t get mad, aye?”

He grits his teeth and nods, something foreign and metallic rising up his throat suddenly.

“I know what I want, but…” Connor bites his lip, looking off at some teens playing Frisbee. “The thing is… Fuck. Okay, look. For me, if ye tell me a certain thing will make ye happy, then I will get ye that thing, do that thing, create that thing. Even if doing that would make me unhappy. And I’m pretty fucking sure ye feel the same towards me.”

“Of course, I do, Con. Ye have to know that. Just tell me what to do to make ye happy. I’ll do anything ye want.”

They stare at each other. The other sounds in the park - the voices of the Frisbee teens, a bird, someone nearby on a bicycle - fade away into a greyish background buzz of stuff that is not important. He feels frozen, uncertain. A bead of sweat trails over his cheekbone, and Connor wipes it away with his thumb.

“What will make me happy is ye making the decision. But it must, Murph - it _has_ to be what ye want. What will make _ye_ happy whether I end up happy or not. I need to know it’s yer _want_ and not yer desire to please me.”

“Oh,” he says. It comes out small and mouse-like, and he stands suddenly, offering Connor his hand and adds, “Let’s go.”

*

The walk home is quiet. The wind picks up and night falls. There’s a flash of lightning and the silence between them is thick and oppressive.

At home, he pisses for nearly a full minute and then heads to the kitchen. He passes Connor in the hall. His brother averts his eyes and hustles pass him. 

In the kitchen he drinks a full glass of water without stopping, almost dropping the glass as thunder rumbles the building. And then rain drums down in a heavenly reprieve, and he loves Connor. 

He wants Connor.

*

In the bathroom Connor’s naked and in the shower. Murphy can see his outline behind the opaque and musty curtain.

He brushes his teeth, strips and clambers into the shower, startling Connor who looks around at him. The movement causes the water to spray him across the chest and the beads mark wet pathways down his stomach.

“Murph?” 

The word - his name - hangs between them in the silence, swaying with the weight of their future. 

Reaching out, Murphy touches the side of his brother’s face, rubs his thumb over Connor’s bottom lip and gives him a half-smile. “We’re bang on at secrets, after all.”

Connor’s grin comes and goes quickly, replaced by a look Murphy isn’t sure he could name — something predatory and lovely at the same time.

“I’m going to touch ye,” Connor announces, already closing the small space between them.

Murphy’s entire body shudders. “Aye,” he says, swallows and shuts his eyes. 

Feeling Connor’s hands in his hair sudsing shampoo is not what he was expecting, but his brother’s fingertips massaging across his skull feel as nice as anything, so he says nothing. Abruptly aware of how tense he’s been, he breathes in the damp air and allows Connor to tilt his head back into the spray, rinsing.

He stands still with his hair dripping, slicked away from his face by Connor’s hands. Nobody’s ever touched his face like that before. Keeping his eyes closed, he feels Connor moving around and then fingers are stroking over his face, soft and lovely. He pulls away instinctively and involuntarily, opening his eyes.

Connor raises an eyebrow at him, then holds up his soapy hand. “Close yer eyes or ye’ll get soap in them,” he orders, moving his hand towards Murphy’s face again.

“I can wash my own face,” he says, jerking his head away, even as he wants to just submit to whatever Connor wants to do, especially touching his face like that.

Connor frowns. “Now, Murph. Ye’ve agreed so ye need to let me love ye like I want to.”

“Let ye…. Wha?” He feels the blush spread over his face and closes his eyes against Connor’s amused look. “Okay,” he says, swallowing against the fluttering in his stomach. 

Connor starts to wash his face with his fingertips. It’s nice. His brother’s soapy fingers are coasting along his cheeks, his jaw, sliding up behind his ear and around the back of his neck. He arches his head back so Connor can wash under his chin.

“Go hálainn,” Connor says, pressing him into the spray to wash the soap from his face.

Connor’s intent on washing his whole body, apparently. Soapy hands over his shoulders, down his arms, washing each finger individually. He washes his underarms which makes Murphy twitch, but he doesn’t move to stop him.

Because it feels really fucking good. Having someone wash ye like that, touching ye everywhere, _taking care_ of ye. He raises his feet letting Connor wash the bottoms, between each toe. His brother turns him around. Soapy hands slide over his shoulder blades, down his spine, smoothly over each arse cheek and then Connor presses his soapy fingers into the crack, sliding. And he’s turned around again, moving easily to his brother’s will. Connor squats to wash his legs and Murphy cups the back of his head, threading his fingers in his hair. A reflection from earlier when Connor rubbed sunscreen on his legs — the recurring echo of their lives. His cock is half-hard. He didn’t know that before, but now that Connor’s kneeling there with his face only inches away, he’s very fucking aware. 

Connor stands without taking his hands off him, and they slide up his thighs; one cups his balls, the other strokes along his shaft with feather touches. He is all the way hard rather suddenly, fighting to keep his eyes closed and just feel every sensation: the water descending upon him, the cleanness of his skin as the soap rinses away, the warm, sure touch of Connor’s hands, stroking firmly, up, palm over, and down, over and over. When he arches his back, Connor stops abruptly and he opens his eyes. 

Thunder rumbles outside as his brother kisses him. Really kisses him. Not chaste and gentle like that time in the woods, not quick and brief somewhere other than his mouth, but crushing into his lips, tongue invading, hot and wet and hungry. It’s the best kiss he’s ever had.

He can feel Connor hard against his hip and shifts till their cocks touch. They grind against each other. He groans into Connor’s mouth, teeth dragging along the bottom lip. It’s like a dance there under the spray, a push, a press of hips and mouths. 

His brother touches his face, runs his thumb along the cheekbone, water sloughing off along its route. Leaning back without moving their hips apart, they look down their bodies to where they grind against each other. Resting their foreheads on each other’s shoulders, Connor reaches between them to wrap his hand around them both, squeezing. 

Murphy stares, unable to look away from his brother’s hand fisting them. Water drums down upon their heads - drips onto their cocks from their chins and noses and hair. Another crash of thunder, and there is just the feel of wet, soft skin skimming against wet, soft skin, Connor’s breath panting into his shoulder, and he can barely breathe with how good it is. 

His brother’s hand is holding him, holding them. And it feels like all over, like Connor has him - he’s shielded. Safe. There’s a rhythm, a pull, thrust, squeeze, aye, blood pounding, breath leaving. And Connor saying his name, chanting his name. His brother’s cock swells and spills. Come wells up, fountain-like, and collapses, gushing, literally flowing, like water over rocks in a river. It’s fucking sexy and he’s coming - a wave that rises, rises, rises, impossibly high - and crashes. Come smears over his brother’s hand, along the shafts of their cocks while the shower rains down like a baptism. Feels like being blessed. 

*

They eat Spaghettios straight from the cans, chased with two beers each and a half a pack of smokes between them. 

“It wasn’t this,” Connor says, stretching himself out on the couch until his head is on Murphy’s lap. “What He wants.”

He combs Connor’s hair softly with his fingers. “Did ye really think it was?”

Connor looks up. “Not really. It’s still on the horizon.” 

He moves his hand down Connor’s chest, splays his fingers over his heart. “We can’t know His plan, brother. Just have to accept it when He asks.”

“Aye.” 

They’re quiet for a bit and he’s almost drifting to sleep right there on the couch, when Connor says, “Murph?”

He’s tired and doesn’t really feel like talking, but he always feels like listening to his brother talk, so he hums, “Mmmm?” sort of sleepy and low.

“I want to get matching tattoos. Like we talked about when we were kids. We could do it tomorrow. We’ve a bit saved up.”

“We do?” He yawns and frowns slightly, just now realizing that he only knows how much money is in his wallet. Connor always handles the rest. He doesn’t even know how much the rent is, come to think of it.

“We do.”

“Aye, then. Let’s. Ye wanna choose the tat or where to put it?”

“Both,” Connor says, selfish and bossy. 

He smiles lazily. “That’s fine.”

They fall silent again, listening as the storm weakens into a simple drizzle.

It’s not so hot anymore.

“We forgot to buy a fan,” Murphy says, indicating the broken one still lying on the floor.

“Right. Man, that fucking conversation seems like years ago.” Connor stands up and stretches. He holds out his hand to Murphy. “Let’s go to sleep.”

In their room, Connor pauses in the tiny space between their beds. “Was thinking maybe we should push the beds together, ye know? For more room?”

“Uh, I dunno know. I don’t really crave more room.” He shrugs and sits on his brother’s bed. 

Their bed.

“Aye. Me neither. Don’t know why I mentioned it.” Connor yawns and scratches his chin. 

They lay down, curl around each other. Connor pulls the sheet up. His eyes feel grainy and closing them is a relief. Sweet darkness.

“Hey.” Connor nudges him.

“Mmmmmm…”

“Hey.” Connor slaps his face lightly.

He opens his eyes, frowning. “What? Was sleeping! Fucking-” 

Connor cuts him off. “Ye haven’t kissed me goodnight.” 

He’s awake again. “What? Are ye serious? Ye want a kiss goodnight? Are ye really gonna be like this?”

“Like what?”

“Like...lovey dovey romantic stuff?”

“I am.”

He rolls right on top of Connor, holds his arms down and kisses him sweetly and for a long time. “I guess I can live with it.” 

Connor smiles into his shoulder, then groans. “Fuck, I gotta piss again. Don’t fall asleep yet. I wanna watch ye.”

“Ye wanna watch me fall asleep?” He laughs. “Are ye gonna cook and clean for me too? Make sure I eat my veggies?“

“Shut it. I told ye, ye’ve got to let me love ye like I want or I’ll kick yer arse.” Connor climbs over him. “Besides, I know ye and I can tell ye love it.”

He makes an agreeable sound and blinks at the ceiling until Connor crawls back into bed. Turning over on his right side so they’re facing each other, he tangles their legs, finds a place to rest his hand along Connor’s hipbone and closes his eyes. Just as he begins to drift from consciousness, his brother whispers, ‘I love ye forever’ and the words roll over him like a wave.


End file.
